


The Journalist: Exposure

by lettalady



Series: The Journalist [8]
Category: British Actor RPF, Real Person Fiction
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-13
Updated: 2015-08-13
Packaged: 2018-04-14 14:27:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4567944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lettalady/pseuds/lettalady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The prequel that precedes the rest of the prequels for this series. We finally see what happened to Tom that changed him and influenced the rest of his choices throughout the series.</p><p>[TJOURN 00]</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Journalist: Exposure

 

“So, what do you say to the rumors circulating that you’re dating again?”

Tom lets out a half laugh, “Nobody wants to know about that.” As distraction techniques go, this sort of banter must be expected. Either he’ll let something slip about his personal life, or he’ll lose a point or two in the game. Hard to say which is the ultimate goal for his opponent right now.

“Yes. Yes they do. Very much.”

“They don’t. Not really. They think maybe they do, but they don’t.” Tom spins the table tennis paddle between his palms, enjoying the feel of the resulting puff of air on his skin. This is his game. One he hates losing – but one he loves playing. If only a certain someone would _serve the ball_. “Why? Guarding your time with me? Jealous?”

That draws a snort of laughter from across the table. “Just doing my job. Gotta ask.”

No. Well, maybe yes. Friends do tend to inquire such things. They’ve had this conversation before, in spurts. Soon they’ll get back to enjoying the night, enjoying the game. Tom nods lightly, “Uh-huh. No comment.”

“Off the record?”

Ah the tenacity of journalists. Being evasive never works. They scent the story and refuse to yield until you give them something. Tom grins, settling the paddle into one hand before miming a short swing to indicate – _PLAY_ , “Sure. No comment.”

“You’re no fun, Tom.”

“I’m buckets on fun. Play, Dylan, or I’ll protest a delay of game!”

Dylan rotates the lightweight ball between his fingers, an air of determination settling over him. “Not asking for intimate details, not even her name – if you want to keep her hidden. Course that fuels everything, but if you want to settle for admitting to type. Blonde? Brunette? Redhead?”

“Play Dylan.”

“Tall? Short? In comparison to you, of course. She’d have to be a giantess to be taller.”

Tom feels a scowl deepening the lines on his forehead. He half turns away from the table to snag his bottleneck beer from one of the nearby end-tables. There’s still the slightest bit of humor in his friend’s manner, but it is quickly fading into something else. This late in the day, this tired from working and pouring himself into a role, all he wants is to enjoy the company of a friend. Recently the only friend that seems to be available is Dylan – and usually they find a decent way to unwind… Dylan from his job at the entertainment rag, and Tom from the day’s work.

They’d bonded over strange work hours, and the strangeness of the industry in general, settled into a familiar pattern over a selection of brews. On nights they didn’t want to brave the crowds they even started avoiding the smaller pubs, settling on Tom’s house, which is incidentally how the table tennis competition arose. One simply does not make boasts about being an excellent player without a demonstration to back up their words.

Tom takes a swig of his brew, the bitter taste suddenly not as appealing as it had been earlier. “No comment, Dylan. Come on mate, just play the game.” He hears the pop of the ball hitting the paddle and turns to watch it barely make contact with the far corner of his side of the table before bouncing off into the room beyond.

“Point for me.” Dylan is just a point down now, though if they were holding to any sort of rules that point would have been deemed unfair. Both parties weren’t ready for play. “So you won’t give me details about her. Protective. Most will enjoy that.”

“Dylan…” Tom stands at the ready now that he’s made it back to the table, ready and waiting for the other ball that he knows Dylan to have possession of to come hurtling in his direction. Instead he just gets words.

“Take her to the usual places? The café – maybe to get your usual? Introduce her to cinnamon dusted coffee?”

“Cinnamon dusted cappuccino.” Simply naming the drink and he can almost taste it. He corrects his friend without really meaning to, but Dylan doesn’t seem to hear him.

“Or out to see a show? A few good movies just released.”

“Stop speculating.”

“Give me something and I’ll stop.” It’s almost the good-natured joking that marks their typical conversations. Almost. Why is it that tonight feels _off_ somehow? “Ok how’s this? You’ve been keeping it as normal as possible. Out for a walk, or over to the pub where we met this afternoon?”

Still trying to inject humor and figure out _what_ has gotten into his friend, Tom shakes his head, “Ok – now I am officially protesting a delay of…”

Dylan winds up and sends the next ball at him. It’s nearly another ace, but Tom saves it. Thank goodness for years of practice and his quick reflexes. They volley back and forth, the conversation momentarily abandoned. The stuttered pop of the little plastic ball hitting table, paddle, and table again is only broken by their occasional grunts of effort. Neither man is to the point of labored breathing yet.

This isn’t the usual casual play. Tom feels the first bead of sweat drip down from his temple. He plays back Dylan’s words as they fire off shots at one another, each testing the other’s limits. Is Dylan jealous of the rumors? They are just that – rumors. Perhaps his friend has grown a little too attached to the friendship?

Tom tries for his usual good-natured laugh but the sound doesn’t quite ring true to his ears. Between that and the way he’s having to lunge to prevent Dylan from winning another point… “Have you – you’ve been following me Dylan? That’s behavior that sounds less like the journalist I first met, and more like a – pap.”

“Name calling, Tom?”

There. That’s almost back to their normal humor. Almost back to the typical teasing that Tom is used to. There’s that _almost_ again. Tom scowls at the thought. Between returning shots Tom tries to hold his paddle up parallel with his body, “Observation only. No offense intended, mate.”

It draws a short, hard laugh from Dylan, one Tom hasn’t heard his friend emit before. “Yea. None ever intended. Might fuck up that ever-the-well-read-gentleman public persona you’ve so carefully crafted.”

Dylan has never held his background against him before. Tom lifts his eyebrows, drawing them together as he blinks back at the man opposite the tennis table from him. “Now who is name calling?”

Dylan parrots his previous words right back at him, “Observation. No offense intended, _mate_.”

Pop. Tom is a fraction of a second too slow in the return and off the plastic ball bounces, joining the other that is somewhere behind him. They’re tied now. Had he lost the lead that easily? Is it the drinking or the conversation that is throwing off his game? Throwing off his whole night, honestly. What has gotten into him? He’s usually better at the game than this. And Dylan. Clearly having a bad day. Wrong side of the bed? Wrong side of the planet, more like.

“So are you going to tell me anything or do I have to force it from you?”

He has his back to Dylan while he searches for the little plastic demons that are currently alluding him. The room isn’t overly large – larger than some in the house, definitely, but that’s by design. Need a larger space to set up table tennis. He shakes his head as he spots one of the bright yellow balls underneath the chair in the far corner. Next time he ventures out he’ll buy another pack or three of the little plastic balls so this won’t be an issue. And try to remember to check the weather and set up the table out of doors…

“Force it from me, I suppose.” Before stooping down he simply stares at his opponent. Dylan stands at the ready. Tom shrugs, shifting his focus. “What does that even mean?”

No answer to his question. Good. Maybe they can get back to something that might resemble a normal night. The sound of a camera shutter makes Tom sit back on his haunches. From his crouched position he looks up to find Dylan typing away on his mobile. Had he snapped a photo? That’s a serious faux-pas. But – Dylan would never –

Dylan, apparently sensing Tom watching him, pauses his attention to the tiny screen on the device in his hands. He looks up, meeting Tom’s gaze. “What’s the saying? A picture’s worth a thousand words. Title: Tom Hiddleston searches for lost balls.”

He’s _got_ to be kidding. A joke encouraged by competition and a little too much to drink? He holds out hope – trying to play along and cling to the notion that something will be said to set the course of the night right again. Tom holds up one of the bright yellow things, gripping the ball between his fingertips. “Ball. Did you happen to see where the other one went?”

Again, no response. At least, nothing helpful. Dylan has refocused his attention on his mobile again. Tom tries again, “Pressing business? We could just call the game.”

“Afraid to lose, Tom?” Dylan asks, setting his paddle down on the edge of the game table to better grip the small device in his hands. He doesn’t move to help in the hunt, just stands there, alternatively watching and typing quickly on his device.

“Afraid? No. Dislike the idea of? Yes. Maybe.”

Where had this change in demeanor come from? Tom mulls it over as he scans the corners of the room, turning his back to his friend once more. Maybe Dylan had just had that kind of day? Maybe losing so many games in a row has gotten to him? Tom shifts, crabwalking sideways a few steps to see if a change in angle helps in the hunt.

With one of the table tennis balls in his possession game play could certainly continue. Might be necessary if he can’t soon find the other plastic creature. One would think that the bright yellow color would make it easier to find, particularly amongst the décor he chose to decorate.

Dylan’s mobile emits a trilled tone. The urge to glance over his shoulder and tease Dylan about always working is on the tip of his tongue, but Dylan beats him to filling the silence. “So what’ll it be? Her name or the name of favorite pub?”

There – there is the blasted yellow ba… Tom freezes in reaching for his prize. What? “What?” He looks over his shoulder, unsure if he heard his friend correctly. Had he really just asked that?  

Dylan is looking down at his mobile again, fingers typing furiously. “Favorite pub, then. And the usual drink ordered, of course.” Then comes that dramatic flair of his right thumb, the daring glint to his eye when he looks up. And the sound – _whoosh_. Universal signal for the sending of a message.

Had he done it? Really done it? Not just trying to fake him out by pairing the sending of something innocuous and these – threats? Was he utilizing information gleaned from their friendship as blackmail? Sending it out into the world to be known by all?

“Is this a joke?” A really, really bad joke. Tom plucks up the other of the game balls and stands, clenching one plastic ball in each fist, too stunned to know what else to do.

“Give me a name, Tom, or where you met. Or the next thing I send in will be… the grocers you frequent. Not because of proximity so much as _excellent selection_.” Dylan tilts his head, “No, I know. House number.”

Not a joke. Definitely not a joke.

Tom’s eyes widen. “Mate, look…” The answer isn’t the start of what Dylan wants to hear – so he starts typing. Tom gives his head a hard shake, “There’s no – I’m not dating anyone, Dylan.”

Whoosh. Dylan looks up at him, “C’mon, Tom. Give me an inside scoop. For all the drinks shared. All the losses suffered at this table.”

This is because he hates to lose? Tom tries to laugh, untucking his game paddle from where he’d stashed it under his arm. “Hey, I can lose gracefully. Just as well as the next man.”

“Can you?” Dylan doesn’t move the pick up his paddle again, just focuses on typing.

“Dylan.”

“C’mon Tom. Stop being a spoil sport.” Whoosh. More information being sent.

Tom’s phone vibrates in his pocket but he doesn’t move to answer it. What the hell has happened to his night? To his friend? The man standing in the room with him isn’t acting like the person he had befriended a few months prior. An itch makes itself known right between his shoulder blades. Tom tries to shift to alleviate it, but to no avail.

“C’mon Tom. Help me out here. Help me help you. Let’s make a splash. Secret girlfriend? _Girlfriends_? How many girls, in how many cities? Give me something juicy to work with.”

The itch has expanded, crawling down his spine inch by inch. And his phone hasn’t stopped buzzing in his pocket. He trades off the plastic ball for the phone in his pocket, making the switch slowly. “I don’t know what kind of day you’ve had today, Dylan, but I’m starting to think maybe we need to call it a night.”

Tom flicks his eyes to the message – **messages** – on the screen of his mobile. Assorted senders, all saying the same thing. All from people hired to help him with his career.

_WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?!_

He’d like to know the same thing.

Then the house phone starts ringing. Tom and Dylan look away from each other in a synchronized motion, both looking out the door to the room towards the source of the sound. Tom looks back first, finding Dylan smiling. Laughing, even. Then Dylan turns his head and looks back at him, “The night is just beginning. No, Tom, before I leave you’re going to tell me some things. But first – don’t you want to answer the phone?”

-

Tom alternates between staring at the journalist seated across the table from him, the man he’d once considered his friend, and staring at the check-shaped scar on the back of his hand. He’d tried listening to the others mediate for a while but even that had proved too much.

Shock. Probably. Yes. Shock at first, and then increasingly – anger. The only way he can manage to stay in the moment, stay present rather than walk out of the room and allow the anger to consume him is to stare at the scar on the back of his hand. He’s only just been able to keep his mouth shut. _Keep quiet, Tom_ – they’d said, after listening to him rant about the problem – _don’t make it worse._

Staring at the journalist, at Dylan, only fuels the anger. So it’s his scar that keeps him grounded. Keeps him from dwelling on the events that have come to pass. He knows the ins and outs of the role for his current project so well that it doesn’t provide enough cover, nothing to keep his brain from focusing with self-destructive purpose on what is happening.

Betrayal. The cruel betrayal of one he had considered to be… on someone he let get close. It’s a character flaw of his, so he’s been told, seeing the best in people. Ignoring the bad. He could withdraw and nobody would blame him. Nobody could – would – _should_ – blame him. It’s **human nature** to want to connect with others. Celebrities aren’t immune. Human _fucking_ nature. And then human fucking nature, as well, to fall to temptation. Everyone has flaws. Faults. Everyone.

Seeing the best in people, and trusting, and… Well… He’s learned his lesson now. No more ignoring the warnings of others. He’d grown complacent. How many years had he survived in the industry just by being himself? Keeping his head down and keeping his focus on the work. Providing soundbites like a good little boy? How many friendships had he cultivated without incident? It was inherent ability – he _always_ won people over. **_Always_**.

He lifts his eyes to focus his gaze on the man sitting across from him and nearly gives in to the desire to get up out of his chair, unhinge the way he has his jaw clenched shut and give voice to his disappointment. More than that, he just wants to lunge over the table, perhaps even color his knuckles and knock that smug smile off Dylan’s face.

Why. _Why?_ “Why?!”

Everyone stops to look at him. The expressions from those on his side of the table all seem about the same, silent pleas to let them handle the mess. Seated in the offices of the lawyer _he_ paid for… He can damn well say what he pleases. To the man doing this to him. 

“Why _not_.” Dylan shakes his head, a look that almost resembles pity flashing across his face for an instant.

“Human. Fucking. Decency, for one.”

“It would’ve been someone else, if I hadn’t done it. All I did was take advantage of the opportunity afforded me.”

The man seated beside Dylan looks panicked, and maybe a little bit sick. “Dylan. Dylan. You’re getting what you asked for. Mr. Hiddleston has agreed to quite a sum, so long as you agree to the terms set forth in the NDA. Please. I urge you. Sign and let’s go.”

Ah. There’s the reason for the look of nausea. The man can see the odds that Dylan will slip up increasing with every passing moment. He wants his paycheck, and the only way he gets it is if Dylan cooperates.

“Right, right. No further contact with _Mr. Hiddleston_. No publishing anything about him. No selling personal information to other sources. All pictures and other data accumulated deleted from my backup drives. And someone will be along to verify.” Dylan’s chair scrapes along the floor as he stands.

It’s an electronic signature on a document that had been written in haste. If there’s a loophole to be found – well – Tom just prays that he has gotten what he paid for with the team of staff members currently occupying the offices.

At the recommendation of his team Tom already has a call in to a locksmith. No more digital alarm to secure the front door, not after today. Old school versus hackable technology. Dylan hadn’t threatened to use that against him – but he’d been in and out of the house enough, stood right by him in the kitchen as he entered the security code. An observant person wouldn’t have missed the sequence.

They’re changing the previously unlisted number for his place, too. That had been required nearly immediately. The phone had been ringing off the hook as they had headed out the door– but he refuses to give up the landline. Old habits and all that. His team has boosted security around his community for the time being. They’ll see how much damage has been done, in the long run. Might have to move, eventually. It’s a fact that Tom hates to consider, but there it is.

They’re still, of course, trying to talk Tom out of the decision he made while getting everything in order – what he announced the moment the rest of the PR team walked in the door. Might it damage his career to shut himself off from the media? Possibly. But really? What argument can they provide to counter it in the face of what happened?

No more – no more interviews with _journalists_.


End file.
